


Wooing Sherlock Holmes

by Calais_Reno



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Awkward Flirting, Bees, Don't copy to another site, Falling In Love, Growing Old Together, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Oblivious Sherlock Holmes, Old Age, Retirement, Sherlock in Love, Sussex, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23051113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Being retired will probably be boring, but Sherlock will give it a try.OR: Sherlock meets John Watson, the handsome doctor who lives down the road, and retirement is suddenly less boring. Cute old men in love.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 212
Kudos: 404
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. The Anachronist

Lestrade was giving me a look. Having known the man for years, decades even, I recognized it as the same look that I bestow on people who are idiots. Since he’d also known me for decades, I understood that he meant it kindly. He knows I’m not an ordinary idiot.

“I’m retiring,” he repeated.

“So you’ve said. What I want to know is, _why_?”

“Don’t have a choice.” He shrugged. “I’m turning sixty-five in a month. Besides, I’ve been chasing down criminals for more years than I can remember—“

“Forty years. And for the last five years, you’ve been sitting behind a desk, eating doughnuts and drinking terrible coffee. You have not, in fact, chased a suspect in those five years. And if I recall correctly, you weren’t doing much chasing before you started sitting behind a desk.” I pointed this out to him because it was true. He’d become considerably slower since I first met him. This is not surprising; we’ve been working together over thirty years.

“The Yard’s got rules about these things. And even if they didn’t, I’m ready to go. My knees are creaky, my blood pressure is elevated— and I’ve got grandkids I want to spend time with. My wife retired two years ago. Jesus, Sherlock, don’t you ever think about it?”

“I’m younger than you, and my knees are not creaky. Nor do I have high blood pressure, grandchildren, or a wife.”

He shook his head. “You’ve been injured, though, more than once, and have the scars to prove it. You’ve fallen from fire escapes, been stabbed, shot at, gotten into brawls with suspects. You’ve had three broken arms, two sprained ankles, at at least one concussion that I know of. And I can’t even remember how many times we’ve fished you out of the Thames.”

“Four times. What do all of these vaguely-remembered incidents have to do with anything?”

“You’re not going to have that kind of luck forever.” Lestrade levelled a serious look at me. “What we do is dangerous. Most of us reach a point where we realise we’re ready to stop doing this. Reaction time decreases, we move more slowly, and things begin to hurt more. Don’t you ever wonder what will happen when you can’t do this any more?”

I hadn’t wondered. This suddenly seemed like a rather large oversight. “This is what I do,” I said. “I can’t imagine giving it up.”

“Give it a few more years and you’ll change your mind,” Lestrade replied, taking another doughnut and dunking it in his lukewarm coffee. “Just wait.”

Over the weeks leading up to Lestrade’s retirement party (where the other detectives made insulting jokes at his expense and gave him new fishing tackle), I thought about this conversation. I thought about things I might do if I were not solving cases any longer— besides cataloguing ash, reading all the back-issues of chemistry journals piled up next to my chair, and playing violin. The only decision I could reach, however, was no decision.

That’s why I kept working, because the Work is what matters to me. It is not that I lack other interests, but I simply cannot imagine getting up in the morning and not having a case to solve. At fifty-eight, I wasn’t ready to face idleness. I had more years ahead of me. At least, I hoped so. If I were lucky, perhaps I would die before I had to stop working. Having thus resolved the issue, I gave it no more thought.

I caught myself observing pensioners, however. They sat in coffee shops reading the newspaper or a paperback book. They owned small dogs which they walked in the park. They bought biscuits and tea and cat food at Tesco, did crossword puzzles, and went to free events at the library. Boring. I had no interest in any of those things. I would not go gentle into that good retirement.

While I regretted losing a colleague who was the best of what Scotland Yard had to offer, there were other DIs I could work with. I began taking cases overseen by Gregson, Hopkins, and Barton, all of them my age or a bit younger. After Lestrade, they were the most competent detectives at the Yard. Each of these had his own peculiar deficiencies, but they were not unteachable, and soon became less inferior. In this way, several years passed without an excess of boredom.

In time, however, they began to entertain the same foolish fantasy that had led Lestrade to retire. One by one they left the force, and I, formerly sought out by the best of Scotland Yard, was called to consult on fewer cases. None of the younger DIs seemed interested in my help. Since they all appeared to be idiots, it didn’t matter. Still, I missed the stimulating effect of solving a double homicide.

I met Lestrade for coffee some months later. We had kept in touch since he retired, mostly so he could show me pictures of his grandchildren and the holidays his wife dragged him on, and so that I could complain about his colleagues.

“These younger blokes are conservative, don’t like to take risks,” he said. “The higher-ups want things done by the book. Too many lawsuits, I guess.”

“You mean that your colleagues know enough about me that they would rather not work with me, even if they’re out of their depth.”

He smiled. “You do have a reputation.”

“I haven’t lost my touch,” I replied. “I’m as capable doing this work as I ever was.”

“But you can’t go on forever. Nobody can. There must be something you’d like to do when you stop working.”

“I don’t intend to stop. I’m not like you, Lestrade. I don’t have grandchildren, and I don’t like holidays or fishing or hanging out at pubs with old people.”

“You never married,” Lestrade observed.

“Very astute. Nothing gets by you, Lestrade.”

“Look, Sherlock.” He sighed and gave me the look that meant I was an idiot, and that he would now explain something to me. “I’m not judging you. If marriage isn’t your thing— if _women_ aren’t your thing— it’s all fine.”

“I know it’s fine.”

“But haven’t you ever thought about it?”

“Obviously I lack your extensive experience— three marriages behind you, wife number four currently dragging you to line-dancing lessons— but I am self-aware enough to know that romantic entanglements, while fulfilling for other people, would—“

“Complete you as a human being,” Lestrade finished. “Having a friend, even a flat mate, would give you companionship. They could be somebody to do things with.”

“I don’t require companionship. While other people may abhor being alone, I believe I am complete without a companion. I’ve lived alone since I left university and have never felt incomplete— or whatever you assume I must feel. I’m not lonely.”

“How would you know?” He smiled. “It’s just— sometimes I worry about you. You’ve been a loner as long as I’ve known you— not that it’s a bad thing, but you’re human. Maybe you don’t get lonely, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t nice sometimes to have coffee with somebody who knows you, just to talk things over.”

“I have you,” I pointed out.

He shook his head in a way that meant I was still an idiot. “You know, sometimes I wonder how being with someone— romantically, I mean— would have changed you. You might have discovered a side of yourself that you never expected. Different people bring out different things in us. By choosing to be alone, you’ve deprived yourself of that opportunity.”

I could think of nothing to say to this. No useful information can be learned from hypotheticals.

As a young man, I might have been curious about romance, but I was an odd duck, a loner, and nobody ever approached me. I certainly didn’t go looking for a relationship. While my peers were obsessing about each other, I was filling my Mind Palace with useful information, cataloguing it so that I could easily find what I needed. It was clear to me that love was an emotional thing, opposed to that true, cold reason which ought to be placed above all things. Love wrecked people’s ability to think logically, a disaster to a man like me who made his living by that faculty. To enter a romantic relationship would surely bias my judgment. And to saddle a romantic partner with myself, a person who abhorred romance, seemed unfair. I wasn’t a virgin (strictly speaking), but eventually I turned forty without having experienced a romantic relationship.

My life did not seem empty, however. I was married to my Work, and became something of a celebrity after a few high-profile cases. I didn’t worry about meaning, or discovering unexpected sides of myself. As long as I wasn’t bored, life was rewarding. If I was bored, I called Lestrade and begged him for a case. His retirement had seriously inconvenienced me.

As I entered my sixties, Scotland Yard cases became rare, but there were still a few interesting private cases that came my way. Those became fewer and eventually farther between, and then a month went by with no clients. 

If I noticed changes in my body, I told myself I was less active, getting out of shape. While I hadn’t put on weight, the pounds I had seemed to have rearranged themselves into a less pleasing configuration. I had never needed exercise before to stay fit, and now did not seem like a good time to impose a regimen on myself. I should simply walk more, I decided. My knees did not creak, but I felt stiffer in the mornings, and climbing stairs made me huff a bit. My doctor recommended that I quit smoking. He prescribed nicotine gum.

My mind was as sharp as ever, though, and I saw no reason to let minor aches and pains turn me into a pensioner.

My brother Mycroft had a massive heart attack and died when I was sixty-three. He had just turned seventy, so it was not a big surprise, especially since he had not taken care of himself for years. Not only was he a heavy smoker, but he was also overweight. He’d talked about retiring for years but, like me, never seemed able to give up working. When I went through his things after his death, I found stacks of travel brochures, notes for writing projects, and a cellar full of wine. This made me sad. He had lived his life as he had wanted, but had planned to live much longer. Whatever he might have enjoyed was hypothetical.

I grew morose, thinking of him no longer being a phone call away. We had not been close, but were similar in many ways, both intelligent men who preferred our own company, and our shared history meant we alone understood certain things. He had no wife or children to mourn him, only a younger brother. Who would mourn for me, when that time came?

I spent my sixty-fifth birthday alone in my flat, organising my crime index. I’d been working as a consulting detective for nearly forty years, over two thousand cases. At times I’d thought about writing up some of the more interesting ones, but my motivation to revisit the past was weak, and I saw no point in it.

Lestrade sent me a text: _Happy Birthday._ I heard from no one else.

I had not died, but the work that had made my life meaningful was ending. Nobody at the Yard knew me any longer. All my old contacts were dead or retired. I stopped to order coffee at my usual cafe one morning, and the new barista asked me for my name. When I said I was _Sherlock Holmes_ , he looked blank. _How do you spell that?_ he asked.

My landlady, Mrs Hudson, had retired years ago, leaving management of the building to her nephew. When I heard she’d died, though, it felt like the end of a major historical era. How could 221B Baker Street carry on without Mrs Hudson? Would England itself not fall without that grand old lady baking scones, telling pointless stories, and sharing the neighbourhood gossip? I remembered fondly how she used to carry my tea up the stairs each morning. _You’re the son I never had,_ she used to say. At times, I felt like a motherless child.

Her nephew, a rather boring solicitor who lived in Mayfair, had let out the first floor flat to a family with children. Now I found bicycles and helmets and footballs in the lower hall. It was aggravating.

One evening I could bear the chatter and random shrieks of the children no more. A walk in the park would refresh my mind and improve my mood, I decided. As I headed down the darkened stairs, I suddenly found myself slipping and falling. Five steps down I caught myself on the ground floor landing and glared at the culprit, a child-sized roller skate.

The crash had alerted my neighbours, who came out into the hall to see what had happened.

“This,” I growled, brandishing the skate with what must have been a rabid look. “Are you trying to kill me?”

They helped me to my feet, said they were very sorry, made the skate’s owner apologize for leaving it on the stairs, and promised it wouldn’t happen again. Grumbling, I limped back up the stairs.

Without understanding how, I’d become old _._ There was a time when I would have known the little boy’s name. I might even have paid him a few coins to get me a newspaper or deliver a note. But parents weren’t like that any more. They didn’t let their children speak to strangers, much less run errands for them. I used to have a little band of homeless irregulars, boys who ran errands for me and kept their eyes where I needed surveillance. I used to know the name of every tradesman on Baker Street and every cop on the beat. Back then, they knew me too, and greeted me by name. What had become of all the people who knew Sherlock Holmes and sought his help? I had never craved fame, but now I felt like an anachronism, a vestige of a vanished age. A grumpy old man.

And I remembered Lestrade’s warning: _You’ll change your mind. Just wait._


	2. The Romantic

When there were no more clients, I called Cousin Linwood, who had managed the family’s various properties and investments since Mycroft died. There was a cottage in Sussex, he told me, a vacation home. Once it had belonged to my parents, who never used it; after they died, it continued to be leased out, generating enough income to keep it in rentable condition. Currently, it was unoccupied. Legally, I was the owner.

Linwood offered to drive me down to see the cottage. Living in London for most of my life, I had never learned to drive a car. Cabs and trains had taken me wherever I needed to go. Perhaps it might be useful to have a car in Sussex, I thought. Retirement is for learning new things, Lestrade had told me; I might learn to drive.

The cottage was a mile away from a village where I would go to buy groceries; other things could be ordered by phone and delivered. The surroundings were pleasant, and I could imagine walking the paths, perhaps studying the flora and small fauna. My life here would be a process of simplification, of clearing the clutter and making time for things that interested me. A car would be a nuisance, I decided.

The cottage was small, but had plenty of room for one person— a kitchen, a sitting room, a bath, and upstairs, an attic room that served as a bedroom. The dwelling was filled with vintage furniture, the Great Depression apparently having been the last time it was updated. The walls were rustic pine, the floors bare wood with area rugs in places. The rugs looked worn, the furniture cushions flat, but those things were replaceable. I preferred vintage surroundings, and there were plenty of antique shops in Sussex to prowl through, looking for interesting items. Redecorating would give me something to do while I figured out what came next.

There were beehives right behind the garden, which explained the name given to the place: The Apiary.

Back in London, I sorted through forty years of clutter and packed what I wanted keep. I kept only my favourite suits for the rare occasions when I would need to dress up, went to an outfitter and bought sturdy shoes and a walking stick. I ordered trousers, shirts, and a jacket suitable for country life. My belongings were packed, shipped, and delivered to my new home.

In two weeks I was ready to leave London.

I took the train down and walked from the station with one light bag. Tea, sugar, milk, and eggs I picked up at the little store in town. I found a bakery and bought a loaf of bread and several pastries. I was now a villager, a rustic, a dweller in the hinterland. Maybe I would get a dog when the weather warmed up.

It was the end of January. Winter was having a laugh at us, teasing us with mild weather that made it pleasant to be outdoors. I had begun researching bees as soon as I learned about the hives. Fascinating creatures, I discovered, which might make an interesting hobby. The hives were not in good condition, I learned, so repairing them became my first task. I ordered supplies and planned what I would need to do over the spring.

Bundled against the damp and cold, I was out among the hives one morning, assessing their state of deterioration, when a cheerful voice called out, “Good morning!”

A man was leaning on the fence, grinning at me. A short man wearing an Aran jumper, corduroy trousers, a plaid wool jacket, a flat cap, and well-worn boots. He looked about my age, more weather-worn, but his back was still straight, his movements easy.

“Hello, neighbour!” Grinning, he held up a gloved hand in greeting.

 _Military,_ I thought, from his posture. A retired professional of some sort.

I supposed that in the country, one needed to know the neighbours; being unfriendly would be counterproductive. I should begin storing up goodwill for the day when I needed a favour. Laying down my tools, I walked towards the fence.

“John Watson,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “I’m your nearest neighbour.” He gestured at the only other dwelling visible, a small trailer home at the end of our lane.

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said, taking the hand.

“Ah, the great detective! Delighted to meet you!” His eyes twinkled. “Your coming has been foretold.”

“Foretold?”

“Well, rumoured. Rumour and gossip are part and parcel of country life. I say _parcel_ because you’d apparently already begun receiving some before your arrival, and the postmistress is the high priestess of information in these parts.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. _And a bit disconcerting_ , I thought. Not that I had any secrets to keep.

“I’m sure you’ll find some interesting little mysteries to solve in these parts. No bodies in libraries or anything like that, I’m afraid. Just garden-variety mysteries. Missing cats. Who stole the jam tarts. The reason Mrs Harden’s hydrangeas never bloom. Why the library closed a half an hour early last Thursday.”

“Sounds fascinating. Regrettably, I’m retired.”

“Of course. So am I, but one keeps surprisingly busy here.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“You deduced that?” He beamed at me. “I suppose I’m an open book to you.”

“Former army surgeon,” I said, showing off a bit. “Widower, one child. You write.”

He wagged his finger at me. “You saw my daughter the other day. She comes down every few weeks to make sure I’m behaving myself. And you noticed the ink on my cuff when we shook hands. Rose bought me a computer, but I’m a rather slow typist. I prefer pen and paper. The army surgeon—“ he frowned for a moment, tapping a finger against his lips, then laughed. “I have no idea how you knew that.”

“You hold yourself like a soldier. No man who’s been in the military ever loses that posture. And your walking stick has an inscription: _Charing Cross Hospital_. It was a retirement gift.”

“You’ve got me.” He gave a merry laugh. “I’m glad you’ve moved in, Mr Holmes. The cottage has been rented out to various people in the four years I’ve lived here, but no one has settled in. I assume you’re planning to stay?”

“That is my plan.”

“Good. I’ll have you over for tea, soon. Until then, I’ll leave you to your work.” He tipped his hat, winked, and was on his way down the lane.

I stared after him as he walked towards town. A slight limp. Lots of older folk have knee and hip problems that make them limp, but this did not look like stiff joints. I would need to think about that.

 _He winked at me._ I would need to think about that as well.

I did not feel lonely, not exactly. My life was quiet, uneventful, but it had been that way for the last couple of years, even before my move to Sussex. The urgent calls from Scotland Yard, the appearance of a client in my sitting room with a strange tale to tell— none of these things would happen any longer. I was reconciled to that, but missed the unexpected interruption, the notion that there were unsolved mysteries happening out there, somewhere, that would land in my lap, as the last resort for some desperate person. Helping people had never been my motivation, but I can’t deny that it felt good to provide a solution to someone’s problem. I missed those moments when all the frustrating clues of a case clicked together, forming a complete picture. But I had come to terms with my change of occupation.

Now my life had a different rhythm, one of my own direction. I could spend an entire day reading, if I felt so inclined, and I sometimes did. I could delve into an experiment without worrying about leaving it at a critical stage. I could sleep or not sleep, eat or not eat. I had not yet descended into lethargy, but I saw that possibility, if I did not guard against it. Without the highs and lows of my former life, boredom might be the result. I kept busy,working on my cottage, organising my books and papers, painting my walls, rearranging my furniture. I went for daily walks and made plans for my beehives.

One morning in mid-February I woke to find my yard covered with snow. Quite a bit of snow, actually. Large, fluffy clusters were still falling. As I came downstairs and entered the kitchen to put on the kettle, I heard a scraping sound on my walkway and looked out the window. John Watson was shovelling his way towards my door. At my gate, he’d parked a small sledge upon which sat a basket.

I went to the door and opened it just as he reached my doorstep.

“Good morning, Mr Holmes!”

“I see that the cavalry has arrived,” I said. “I wasn’t aware I needed rescuing.”

“Well, you looked snowed in,” he replied. His cheeks and the tip of his nose were bright read, making his eyes seem even bluer. Snowflakes had gathered on his eyebrows and beard. He looked a bit like a frosty garden gnome. “Can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t want to see you slip and fall. The snow’s predicted to continue into tomorrow, so I’ve brought you provisions.”

Hearing my kettle begin to whistle, I invited him inside for tea. He trotted back to his sledge and retrieved the basket, then returned and handed it to me. Provisions turned out to be homemade scones and a small pot of jam, also homemade. As he stamped the snow off his feet on the porch, he said, “I’m not sure how long a person can live on just scones and jam. I’ve brought you some milk and eggs as well. When I heard the weather report yesterday, I went to the shops. Do you have firewood?”

He knelt by my hearth and poked last night’s embers.

“It’s behind, by the shed,” I said.

“I’ll bring some inside for you so it’ll dry out. I’ve got plenty, if you need more.”

John Watson was clearly a man who planned for the future. I imagined that he had cupboards full of tins and tea, a shed filled with every tool known to man. As a city-dweller, it had not even occurred to me that the weather needed checking. In London it generally rained, regardless of the season, and no one worried about the shops running out of eggs or milk. “I was advised that in Sussex snow rarely falls in quantities requiring rescue.”

“It is somewhat rare,” he said, taking the mug I handed him. “You must understand, weather is part of the entertainment of living here. Rumour, gossip, and weather give us something to obsess about. When snow is forecast, the shops sell out of staples quickly. People keep a pile of firewood just so they can have that cozy blaze when the blizzard swoops in.”

“It’s, what, two inches?” I said. “Hardly a blizzard.”

“Most we’ve had since I moved here. If history is any guide, though, we might get more this year. There was an avalanche in 1836. Killed eight people.”

“Impressive. I had no idea I’d moved to such an exciting locale.”

He giggled, a lovely, mirthful peal that made me smile.

“You know, we’ve all read about your cases in the papers. I used to wish that you’d write some of them up, though, like proper stories.”

“You mean fictionalise them.”

“No, not that. I saw an interview with you once, on the telly. The interviewer was trying to get you to elaborate on what had happened. It was an odd story, a hound terrifying a neighbourhood, something rather supernatural. It turned out to have a completely natural explanation, but I thought it would have made a great story.”

“Ah, yes. The Hound of the Baskervilles. An interesting case. As you say, a completely ordinary explanation, human greed. Once people knew, they lost all interest. I’m not sure what romanticising it would have accomplished.”

“Romance isn’t meant to accomplish anything,” he said. “It is merely the driving force behind civilisation.”

“I would have thought that _reason_ was the civilising force.”

He shrugged. “No one gets excited about reason, Mr Holmes. It may underlie human progress, but romance is what moves us forward.”

“We were talking about science, Dr Watson,” I said. “I am a detective, and detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. To attempt to tinge it with romanticism— well, that would produce much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid.”*

His smile was warm. “But people would read it. They would admire your scientific reasoning, and perhaps learn from it.”

His argument was clever, I thought, but wrong. Science does not need romance, but it would be a clear waste of time to try to explain this to a romantic like John Watson.

The moment of silence lengthened. He rose and carried his mug to the sink. “Well, I suppose I should be on my way.” He patted his jumper, reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a mobile. “Listen, I’d like you to have my number, just in case you need anything. Any time, no matter how trivial. I can see you’re a man used to solitude, but if you ever want some company, I hope you’ll ring me up.” He found a pair of reading glasses in his other pocket and put them on. Flipping his phone open, he squinted at it. “My daughter says I need this contraption, God knows why. And I really have no idea what my own number is.”

“Here,” I said, holding out my hand. Standing next to him, I showed him the menu button and found his number. He wrote it on a scrap of paper and fixed it to my refrigerator. I folded his phone and looked at the back. _Harry Watson From Clara Xxx._

“Yes, well.” He tucked his spectacles back into one pocket, the mobile into the other. “I guess you can see that I’m an analog man in a digital world.”

We were still standing close to one another. He smelled of fresh air, wet wool, and scones.

“Thank you,” I said. “For the shovelling. And the provisions.”

“No problem. Call me for anything. Any time.” He grinned. “Or you can text. I can do that, you know. LOL.”

I realised later that I should have given him my number as well. I’m not inept with technology. My ineptitude lies with social interactions. I might have called or texted him so he would have my number, but that would have started a digital conversation I would have no doubt bungled, being unskilled at such interactions. I was not sure, for example, why he had said _LOL,_ a texting abbreviation which means _lots of love._ I do not use abbreviations when I text.

As the weather warmed over the next month, I prepared to introduce bees into my hives and planned what flowers I would plant for them. Once they were established in the hive, I’d have to feed my bees for a few weeks, until they were able to get pollen from the flowers. The local beekeeper’s organisation provided resources for me. I marked their next meeting date on my calendar and learned who in my area kept bees.

My friendly neighbour, the army doctor, went for a walk daily; I could almost set my watch by the click of his gate. He was a morning walker, whereas I preferred to walk in the late afternoon. Very often I was working on my hives or in my garden when he came down the road. Usually he would stop and chat for a few minutes. Not being a talkative person myself, I made an effort to be polite, but nothing more. We covered topics such as the weather and the neighbours (whose doings he followed closely). He told me who everyone was and relayed all the latest gossip from the village, asked questions about my bees and made suggestions for my garden. I enjoyed our conversations; he was not offensive or overly intrusive. His little stories made me smile.

Physically, he was small, but he gave an appearance of strength and energy. Though physical beauty does not often make an impression upon my scientific mind, I judged him to be a handsome man. I had decided not to ask him any personal questions, but rather to deduce what I could and casually confirm my findings when we conversed. Lestrade had warned me more than once about not appearing to be a _smart-arse,_ surprising people with my deductions, but it had been a long time since I had worried about what people thought about me. Making observations kept me entertained, and Doctor Watson did not seem like a man easily offended.

He fortunately did not consider me a smart-arse. I deduced that he had come to the country not to be alone, as I had, but because he enjoyed physical labour and the mundane life of a country village. He liked meeting people, knew everyone in the area, and everyone seemed to like him.

He was fond of jumpers, the hand-knit variety, and appeared to have an infinite supply of them. His wife had made them, I decided. I wondered how she had died. Noting the indentation on his ring-finger, I inferred that he had only recently taken his ring off. Her death was no doubt recent, then.

His hair was military neat and short, once blond, now mostly grey. He had grown a beard since moving here, I guessed (from the inexpert trimming), which was reddish, but also shot through with grey.

Based on his movements, I deduced a shoulder wound from his army days. His slight limp was not arthritic, and I spent some time trying to imagine an incident that could have given him two wounds, finally concluding that the limp was psychosomatic. This suggested even more interesting possibilities.

He had a rather telegraphic style of speech, conversing in partial sentences and frequently breaking off mid-sentence to make a parenthetical observation about something unrelated. Intelligent, but not given to showing off his vocabulary. He was used to talking with laymen, explaining diagnoses and treatments to people who did not understand science or medicine.

I guessed that his main form of entertainment, besides talking to people, was reading mysteries and watching movies. He was clearly left handed, and held his pen at a back angle that left ink on his cuff and the side of his hand. The quantity and frequency of ink said that he wrote more than occasional letters to friends or notes about his garden. I surmised that he wrote stories in his spare time. They were no doubt romantic adventures.

He followed through on his invitation to tea. Concluding that he was not going to turn into an annoying idiot, I accepted. We were still polite with one another, but I was curious about the man’s limits.

“Call me John,” he insisted, inviting me inside.

I nodded. “Sherlock.”

His trailer home was smaller than my cottage, and newer. At one end was a small kitchen, at the other his bedroom, screened off by a curtain. In between was a sitting area. I deduced that he was a tidy man. No piles of books, no cluttered surfaces. He seemed to favour furnishings that were simple, sturdy, and unsentimental. Other than a picture of him with his daughter’s family (balding husband with terrible moustache, two adolescent children, a boy and a girl), there were few mementos lying about the room. His bookshelf contained a variety of books, but leaned towards John Le Carre and Robert Ludlum, as I had predicted. He drank Taylor’s Yorkshire and (thankfully) did not let the bags steep too long. His biscuits were shortbread, homemade.

Once we were settled, he smiled and said, “How did you know I was a widower?”

“The woman I saw, whom you’ve identified as your daughter, is thirty years younger than you. If she were your wife, you would have mentioned her before this. In addition, there is a strong familial resemblance that told me she was your daughter. Since you live alone, I deduced that your wife has passed away.”

He raised an eyebrow. “How do you know I’m not divorced?”

“I was playing the odds. You’re a good looking man,” I said, blushing a bit to acknowledge this. “But men our age don’t divorce their wives unless they’ve got another woman. You’re obviously single, so I guessed you were a widower. Having a wife is like a habit, whether the marriage is happy or not; no widower will stay single for long. A healthy, good-looking widower in his sixties can count on being pursued by flocks of widows, who are statistically more numerous than available men at that age. The concentration of widows is greater in the country than in the city. You’ve removed your wedding ring, but the indentation is still evident, so her death is recent. The beard is new, judging from the family photo, which indicates that you’re embarking on a change of life. Thus I deduced: you are recently widowed and have come to Sussex to find a new wife.”

He laughed, that lovely high-pitched giggle that made his eyes crinkle. Hearing it, my gut did a small flip. 

“Amazing,” he said. “Almost entirely accurate.”

 _Almost?_ “What did I get wrong?”

“My wife died when my daughter was still a baby. I’ve been a widower for over thirty years.”

“Your ring— you wore it until recently. You would have removed it if you thought of remarrying. Why—?” As soon as I asked this, I realised that it would sound like I was prying. This was tea, a social event. Itwasn’t like being on a case, where I could ruthlessly interrogate a witness. He might be offended.

He didn’t look offended. “I had a baby to take care of and a practice to run. I found myself too busy and exhausted to even think about dating.”

“But when she was older, you might have thought about it.”

He shrugged. “I might have. However, the circumstances of my wife’s death were... difficult.”

In that one word, I sensed I had reached a limit. I might have pushed him, asked again about the ring, but there really was no hurry. Eventually, I would deduce.

“And you?” He raised his eyebrows at me. “Never married?”

“Not my area,” I said. “Sentiment, I mean.” 

“Ah. A loner, I deduce,” he said, smiling. “Solitary.”

“In some sense, I have considered myself married to my work.”

“I see. And now you’re retired.”

“I’m— yes, I am retired.”

He refilled my cup and pushed the scones towards me. “Why did you decide to settle in Sussex?”

“My family owned the cottage. It seemed like an easy decision.”

He nodded. “You’ve deduced my reasons for retiring. I hope you won’t think I’m prying if I ask you the same. You’re not older than me. Obviously you’re not senile or physically impaired. Your powers of observation have not left you. Why have you retired?”

“I didn’t want… to outlive my usefulness,” I said. “I was beginning to feel as if the world was moving on, leaving me behind. I decided to take a step into the unknown instead.” This was news to me; I hadn’t really thought it out, not in those terms. I’d been running from obsolescence and hadn’t bothered to look at what I was running towards.

“The unknown,” he repeated, smiling. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Sounds almost… romantic. Like an adventure.”

“I hope it will be,” I replied, returning his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * These words are a direct quotation from "The Sign of Four," Arthur Conan Doyle, where Holmes is explaining to Watson why he didn't like his story, "A Study in Scarlet."


	3. The Boyfriend

The little mysteries Watson had predicted materialised, but the only truly fascinating problem I found in the area was the man himself— John, as he had insisted I call him. I had made up my mind to figure him out, but every question I asked only produced another mystery to be solved.

I asked him over the week following his invitation, and soon Thursday became our day for tea, alternating weeks between our two dwellings. I made sure to visit the shops and pick up a treat for the days he came over, as he seemed to love pastries and I, alas, had no baking skills. He made his own biscuits, scones, and muffins, and even a caraway cake once, a favorite I hadn’t tasted since I was a child. I looked forward to these occasions. He was easy to converse with, intelligent enough to be curious about the kind of things that interested me, but had led a life much different from mine. He talked about his army days and the strange things he’d encountered as a doctor. I told him about my most interesting cases.

By this time, I had given him my mobile number. He further suggested that we exchange keys. “Just a precaution,” he said. “Friends should check up on one another. You might fall down the stairs, break something.”

 _Friends?_ I suppose that is what we were now, people who enjoy one another’s company and spend time together, people concerned about each other’s welfare. I’d had friends, but never exchanged keys before. Though Lestrade was a friend, I had never worried about him falling down stairs. If I had concerns, I would not have needed a key. I would simply have picked his lock. Or might have, had I known where he lived. When he had worried about me being on drugs, he didn’t need a key. He asked Mrs Hudson to open the door so he could conduct a search. I gave up drugs soon after meeting him, but he continued to drop by, ostensibly to _chat._ I suppose he was really attempting to determine that I had not resumed my habit. He did care about my welfare, which is why I considered him a friend.

“You don’t have any stairs,” I pointed out. “And I’m not so old that I don’t know how to navigate down a flight.”

“You might have a stroke,” he said. “Or fall in the shower.”

“I’m not decrepit,” I said. “I’m still quite able.”

“You’re my friend,” he repeated. “Emergencies are not predictable. I’d feel better if we could check on one another.”

This was true. John Watson seemed to have become my friend. And one day he might have an emergency. His gimpy leg might give way and cause him to fall on the floor and break something. I would notice if he didn’t go for a walk one day, and then I could open his door and rescue him instead of letting him die of dehydration. I gave him my spare key and accepted his. It seemed like a good idea when I thought of it that way. 

One day I found a bag of scones in my mailbox. A few days later it was a tin of ginger bonbons, my favorite. When the plants began to bloom, there was a small bouquet of flowers. A few weeks later, cherry tomatoes and small bunches of radishes.

I knew who had left them. Once I even spied him through the curtains, furtively leaving his present and hurrying on his way. I did not know what it meant, though. It seemed greater than what a friend might do, but since I had just two of those, I might have been mistaken. Even so, he had proclaimed himself a friend, so I had to believe that he had thought it through. But his behaviour did not seem exactly that of a friend. What kind of friend leaves presents in your mailbox?

Mrs Hudson used to leave me little treats sometimes, not in my mail slot (which was much too narrow for scones), but on my table or in my refrigerator. She was my landlady, though, not my friend. It was in her nature to regard me as a child who needed mothering, which resulted more often in scolding than in scones.

Lestrade had never sent me a card, much less a present, even on my birthday. He never brought me vegetables. He was more the type of friend who took you out for a pint of beer or a cup of coffee and insisted on paying.

To be honest, I never sent Lestrade a card on his birthday either. I don’t even know when his birthday is. In retrospect, I have been a terrible friend, what with not knowing where he lived or acknowledging his birthday. Perhaps I could do better with John Watson, I thought.

But why had he left his gifts secretly? Was he waiting to see if I could deduce who had left them? Was I supposed to thank him? I said nothing, and the offerings kept appearing.

I was at a loss. He seemed to be giving me lots of data; I just couldn’t interpret what it meant.

I suppose I do not possess a strong libido. Like most men, I normally awake with morning hardness, but I rarely have strong urges. As I’ve gotten older, I am more easily able to ignore them. When I was younger, opioids were useful for suppressing that urge, but they have other disadvantages, which eventually led to me giving them up.

In spite of having an active mind that rarely rests, I do not dream. Well, that is not completely accurate. All people dream; we just don’t always remember what our minds have done while we are asleep. My theory is that the harder one’s brain works while awake, the less likely one is to remember dreams. My brain gets a workout in the daylight; at night, it rests.

Shock was what I felt, therefore, when I awoke in the morning in the midst of an erotic dream and found that I’d spent into my sheets. Embarrassing. Like being thirteen again, desire chasing me every waking hour and ambushing me at night. It bothered me intensely to have my unconscious mind pursuing things that I had little interest in.

What was even more embarrassing was that my dream had involved my neighbour— my _friend_ , John Watson. This should not have been embarrassing, but it was. I would blush the next time I saw him, even though he could not possibly divine my thoughts.

The dream could not mean anything, however. I had spent many hours in his company, studying his face and figure. There was no mystery about his appearance in my dream. He was familiar, and my brain had grabbed onto what was close at hand. I knew my own nature; obviously he was not gay, having been married.

Ah, but it was lovely, that dream. His body, so compact, still muscular in spite of his age. He knelt down before me and begged, said he longed to touch me, to have me in his mouth. I, unembarrassed, let him. I felt his beard graze my thighs, his hands kneading my buttocks. One finger slipped inside me and I was gone. My orgasm was hard, shaking every part of my body, which was what awakened me.

More exercise would take care of my imagination, I decided. Hard, physical work was the remedy, and fortunately there were many tasks that needed doing. I would start with my gutters, which required cleaning now that the spring rains had begun.

I fed my bees and weighed my hives to make sure they were thriving, learned how to practice good “bee hygiene” to avoid the major causes of hive death. These tasks didn’t take a lot of time, so I turned my attention to furnishing my new home. My new bed was larger than the one on Baker Street, which had necessitated a purchase ofnew bedding. I tore down the faded wallpaper and painted the walls. New area rugs in the sitting room made it look more like home. When the weather cooperated, I climbed up onto the roof and nailed down loose shingles. I kept my mobile in my pocket, in the event that I fell off the roof and had to call Doctor Watson.

Behind my cottage there was a lean-to shed. There I found clippers and other garden tools, chicken-wire plant cages, and a small wagon. That might be useful if I had to haul away debris from my yard or bring a parcel back from the village. I cleaned it out and checked the wheels.

I had learned to cook a bit after Mrs Hudson retired, but didn’t enjoy it. I wondered if most men married just so they didn’t have to cook for themselves, but was not about to resort to romance just so I could eat regularly. Knowing that I would be reduced to living on biscuits and breakfast cereal if I didn’t make an effort at nutrition, I found a woman, Mrs Turner, who came in twice a week to cook several meals for me. I divided them into individual portions and stored them in the freezer until I needed them, and purchased a microwave oven which I used to heat them up.

Aiming for some degree of organisation, I ordered shelves for my sitting room. I had lived in a flat stuffed with books on every subject, and though Google could point me to information without forcing me to trip over stacks of books, these volumes had been my friends for so many years that I could not banish them from my new home. I needed them about me, and in return, I would give them a place of honour.

When the shelves arrived and I began to assemble them, I realised that I had made a mistake. They were much too flimsy for the weight of the books I owned. Perhaps they had been designed for knick-knacks or magazines or whatever non-readers need shelves for. I packed them up, taped the box shut, and towed it to the village post office in my wagon.

As I waited in line, wondering where I might find the kind of shelves I was looking for, a familiar and friendly voice called my name.

“Hullo, Sherlock,” John Watson greeted me, tucking a roll of stamps into his pocket. He nodded at my bulky package. “Sending off a return?”

I bit back a reply, reminding myself that people make inane observations as a form of smalltalk. “Shelves,” I said. “For my books.”

He nodded. “You got the kind that fasten to the wall, but they’re not sturdy enough. What you need is a proper bookshelf.”

“That’s the idea, which is why I ordered what looked like proper bookshelves. Since I don’t have a car—“

“I have a truck,” he replied. “And a better idea. Meet me outside once you’re done here.”

Once I’d gotten over the indignity of having to pay to return something that was not exactly as advertised, I went out onto the pavement and collected my wagon, feeling annoyed with the world.

Across the street, John was wearing sunglasses and leaning against a red pickup truck. He looked quite dashing, I thought, with his beard and his sunglasses and the blue jumper that picked up the colour of his eyes. I couldn’t see his eyes, obviously, but I knew what colour they were, a stormy blue-grey speckled with gold around the pupil. In bright sunlight, they might look blue or grey. By lamplight, they appear hazel-brown. I found them fascinating.

“You’ve got that look on your face,” he said when I had crossed the street.

“What look is that?”

He grinned. “That _do keep up_ look, the one you use when you have to deal with mere mortals.”

I sighed. “I’m not a very sociable person.”

“Sociability is useful, but overrated,” he said. “Here’s my idea. There’s a store over in Lewes where we can get lumber to build you a bookcase.”

“ _Build_?”

“You could buy one and have it shipped, but that will be expensive and if it’s not right, you’ll have something even bigger and bulkier to return.”

“I’m not a carpenter, John.”

“You can learn,” he replied, smiling. “Fortunately, your neighbour knows how to make bookcases, having made his own.”

I remembered the furniture in his trailer home, the sturdy bookcases holding medical books, volumes of history, literature, and science, and an extensive collection of spy novels, mysteries, and movies.

“You’ll help?”

“Of course! It’ll be fun.”

As he was lifting my wagon into the truck, we were intercepted by an elderly lady wearing a floppy hat and too much makeup.

“Woo-hoo! Doctor Watson!” she called out, marching towards us with more alacrity than an eighty-year old woman in kitten heels ought to have possessed.

“Mrs. Travers,” Watson said. “How are you feeling?”

“Much, much better,” she said, fumbling her handbag onto her other arm so that she could clutch his wrist with her gloved right hand. “We’re so lucky to have a doctor with real skills.”

“As I am fortunate to have the loveliest patients,” he replied.

“Are you flirting with me, Doctor?” Smiling, she tilted her head coquettishly.

“Now, Mrs Travers,” he said. “I can hardly flirt with a lady while my boyfriend is standing right here, can I?”

_Boyfriend. My boyfriend._

She cast a glance at me; Watson hastened to make introductions. Fortunately, I managed to conceal my confusion and might even have smiled like a normal person.

“The detective!” She gave me an admiring look. “And so handsome! Well, Doctor, take good care of him, or there will be ladies flocking around him, thinking he’s available.”

“I will, Mrs Travers,” he said, sweeping into a bow.

 _My boyfriend._ It had obviously been a joke, I thought. Either that, or he was trying to ward off her attentions without hurting her feelings. Yes, that seemed likely. But after all the winks, the small gifts, the flowers in my mailbox, the hand that often squeezed my arm or shoulder in greeting, I wondered. Had I been experienced in romance, I might have read the signs. As it was, I felt out of my depth, an alien conversing with a native speaker. I made up my mind to say nothing about it.

He talked about the qualities of various woods as we drove to Lewes. Once there I was able to pick out lumber appropriate for our project. He seemed to know what we would need, picked up a few items, but said he already had all the necessary tools.

Since my cottage lacked appropriate space, the project took shape in the garage behind his trailer that he referred to as his _workshop_. He housed his truck in one half of the space, and the other was filled with worktops and tools and metal cabinets. Though I had no experience working with wood, he was a good and patient teacher. I enjoyed the mathematical side of building, the measuring and cutting, fitting the shelves into the frame. We made trips to the hardware store in the village for additional brackets and screws, and picked out a stain for the wood. Once we’d finished one set, he suggested that I had enough books for a couple more, and plenty of room in my cottage, so we continued our project. I enjoyed the afternoons we worked together, the smell of wood and varnish, the easy camaraderie we shared.

Since moving into my new home, I had yet to be bored. I also had to admit that I felt much more fit than I had in a long while. My joints ached less and I slept very soundly. I no longer missed cigarettes, and when I looked in the mirror, what I saw pleased me. My upper body looked more muscular, a result of all my activity. I felt years younger.

One Thursday when I came to John’s cottage for tea, the door was opened by his daughter, Rose, whom I had seen from a distance, but not yet met. She had blond hair like her father, worn in a chin-length bob. I decided that she was a teacher, either math or science, and had two school-aged children named Hamish and Emily. I am not clairvoyant, but I do have good eyesight. I had seen the picture, and she was wearing a bracelet with these names on small heart charms, which would just be odd if they were not her children’s names. She also wore a wedding ring, but no diamond, which told me that she had gained weight since being engaged, but her husband was too cheap to get her diamond re-sized, probably because he was having an affair.

“Mr Holmes,” she greeted me. “Dad said you’d be over for tea today. He’s just taken a ginger cake out of the oven. Come on in and I’ll start the kettle.”

John stepped out of the tiny kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Cake’s done, Rosie. Ah, I see you’ve met my boyfriend.” His grin crinkled the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, Daddy,” Rose said, swatting at him. “Stop embarrassing the man.” She smiled at me. “He’s impossible. Feel free to ignore him.”

The first time had seemed like a joke. Now, to be introduced to his daughter this way— I wasn’t sure what to think.

The moment passed, though. We sat and had a normal conversation over tea. The cake was delicious, and there were no more references to boyfriends. We talked about my bees, and John told Rose about our carpentry work on the shelves.

“My Rose is a teacher,” he told me.

“Math?” I asked.

“Science,” she said. “Chemistry mainly.”

“That was my field of study at Cambridge,” I said. “What age are your students?”

“It’s a secondary school,” she replied. “Most of my students are sixteen or seventeen.”

“Ah. I believe I’d already blown up the lab by that age. I was very interested in chemistry from an early age.”

She laughed. “I wish all my students were so curious, though I’m happy to say my lab has not yet had any serious explosions. I’m wondering, Mr Holmes.What made you go into hunting down criminals?”

“It began as a curiosity that led me to solve mysteries,” I said. “I suppose I might have gone into research, but I became fascinated by the practical application of science to crime detection. The methods used by police departments haven’t always been scientific, you know. Evidence is easily contaminated by careless handling. Things have improved, though, and I like to think I’ve played a small role in that. I’ve had several cases that were solved solely by science.”

She seemed eager to hear about cases where a knowledge of chemistry had proved guilt or innocence, so I obliged with several stories.

I sensed that father and daughter were close, and wondered how the loss of wife and mother might have strengthened that tie. She would not remember her mother, from what he said. Had there been other women over the years, other applicants for the role of Mrs Watson? Had grandparents, aunts, uncles been there for them?

It was a pleasant afternoon, a lovely tea, stimulating conversation.

But— _boyfriend?_


	4. The Sociopath

I played my violin for John the next time he came over. He said he’d heard me playing in the evenings, now that it was warm and windows were kept open.

I wasn’t sure what type of music he liked. I have spent most of my life playing only for myself, indulging my own need to hear and feel the music, and sometimes what I play hasn’t been well appreciated. When I used to work on a problem late at night, I’m afraid what I produced wouldn’t be considered music at all, in the traditional sense. Mrs Hudson used to complain, _Mr Holmes, do stop scraping that poor instrument and play some proper music!_ Then I would play some of Mendelssohn’s Lieder and she would smile again.

For John, I played the second movement of Tchaikovsky’s Violin concerto. It’s not very long, and it is very beautiful, though sad. When I looked up, his eyes were filled with tears.

“It’s lovely,” he said. “Just… lovely. You should join the village orchestra.”

“Are there enough players locally for an orchestra?”

“Well, an ensemble, perhaps. Some strings, a few brass and reeds. You might get up a string quartet. Mr Harmon is quite a good cellist, and Mrs Humphrey plays viola. We have a couple of pianists as well, Mrs Knight and Mr Landers. When there’s a soloist, one of them accompanies. We have instrumental music in church on Christmas and Easter.”

I had been avoiding church, having no particular aptitude at pretending to worship a non-existent god. The music, though, was a draw. My childhood had included weekly church at my mother’s insistence, and it was only the music that kept me from rebellion. These village musicians were no doubt amateurs, but it might be interesting to hear them perform. I didn’t fancy playing with amateurs, but was willing to consider new things. That was what retirement was for, Lestrade had said.

“I’ll have to look into it.”

My beehives were doing well. In a few weeks, I hoped, I’d be able to start harvesting honey. John stopped by to watch me check the hives. I assured him that if there were honey, a jar would be reserved for him.

“I’m going to have to bake some great bread to go with it,” he said.

We began to take our walks together. I had decided that afternoons were a bit too warm for walking, and asked if I might accompany him in the mornings. Most days we wandered aimlessly, our conversation confirming many of my deductions about him.

“You were in Northern Ireland,” I said. “The Troubles. That was where you got your shoulder wound.”

We were walking east. The morning sun was in his eyes, making them look almost golden. He had left his sunglasses in his truck.

Squinting, he said, “I was kneeling beside a civilian who’d been wounded, trying to stop the bleeding. It was one of ours who fired the shot, I learned later. Went through my shoulder, killed the civilian.” He shook his head. “I thought I would die. I was wounded, and then the wound became infected. It’s a miracle they saved my arm. Changed my life, though. No more surgery. Hand shakes too much.” He held up his hand and demonstrated.

“And your leg,” I began.

“Rugby.”

This was a lie. If it were his knee, he would have had the joint replaced a long time ago, and he would not be playing in the pensioners rugby league. (Evidence: a small plaque on his wall hung beside a picture of the team.) Another mystery.

I decided to confirm another bit I’d deduced. “Was your brother also in the military?”

“I don’t have a brother.” He looked at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You saw the inscription on my phone.”

“I did, when you handed it to me. Who is Harry Watson?”

“Harry is my _sister_. Harriet.”

“Oh! Your sister. Well, there’s always something. And who’s Clara? From the _xxx_ , I assumed a romantic partner…”

“Correct.” His eyebrows rose until they disappeared into his fringe. He waited, an expectant smile on his lips.

At once, I understood. “Oh. Oh! I see.” Embarrassed, I tried to think of another turn our conversation might take. I seemed to be blundering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… erm.”

“It’s all right.” He was grinning. “You only missed one thing, that she was a sister, not a brother. That’s a lot to deduce from four words and three kisses.”

“Why did she give you her phone? My assumption was that they had broken up.”

He shook his head. “She got one of those with the big buttons. She’s five years older than me, a diabetic. Said her eyes were getting too weak to read the tiny screen.”

“You wear glasses, but only for reading.”

He nodded. “Old age is a bitch.”

I had decided that his little joke about me being his boyfriend had been a misguided attempt at being friendly. I had seen how he and Rose teased one other, and deduced that this type of good-natured ribbing was a part of his personality. Other than the little gifts, now including more vegetables from his garden, there were no other overtures. I had no doubt been mistaken when I imagined that it meant more.

His sister’s inclinations might make him more open to homosexual feelings, I thought, but as far as I knew, it was not a genetic trait. He had married and had a child, which strongly suggested that he was heterosexual.

I felt myself on alien ground, however. All the relationships I had ever had that might have been called friendships were quite different from this one. Ordinarily, I plow right over sentiment, ignore social cues, and worry little about what people think. I have rarely been close enough to a person to become sensitive to their feelings. Even Lestrade, with whom I’ve worked for years, still shakes his head at my social blunders. He used to, at least. I haven’t seen him for months, but I assume that because I have not lost my asocial tendencies, he still would shake his head about me.

I hadn’t even spoken to him since January, shortly after I moved, when he called to see how I was settling in. I had an odd feeling about that. Maybe I missed him. At times I thought of things I might have asked him, or wondered what he would think about me building bookcases and tending beehives. It occurred to me that I might phone him, but I wasn’t sure whether we were the kind of friends who didn’t talk for months, and then out of the blue reconnected. He had always initiated our meetings, either for a case or just socially. I had only ever called him when we were on a case and I needed to ask him something. And I more often texted him, once I had a phone that could do that.

It might be awkward, ringing him up after months of silence, but I had little to lose. I would practice my new social skills on him.

I counted the rings. Seven ought to be sufficient, unless it went to voicemail first.

He picked up on the third ring. “Sherlock! I was just thinking about you.”

“I’m sure that your thoughts about me have nothing to do with the fact that I decided to call you. Believing that you caused me to call you by thinking about me would be the _post hoc_ fallacy. It is merely a coincidence—“

He was laughing. “You sound the same. How’s retirement going?”

“I have bees.”

“The kind that bore into wood? I had some of those move into my attic. Had to get an exterminator.”

“No. These are honeybees, and they live in hives.”

“So, you’ve found a hobby.”

“Indeed. They are currently gathering pollen from my flowers and producing honey.”

“And you’re not bored?”

“No. I’ve repaired their hives. And I learned how to make bookshelves as well.”

“Good for you. I knew you’d like retirement. Have you made any friends down there?”

I hadn’t completely made up my mind about what John was, but all evidence pointed to him being a friend. “Yes, I have one friend. His name is John.”

“That’s good. Very good.”

The conversation seemed about to lag, when I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t asked him any questions. “Have you learned to line dance yet?”

“No more line dancing. We’re antiquing now.”

“You’re… finding antiques or selling them?”

“We’re just learning about it, driving around and looking in small shops. We bought an ugly table that’s worth nothing. To be honest, most of it’s worthless junk, but Becky likes it.”

“I see. Do you still like being retired?”

“Yeah, I do. Actually, we might be coming your way some time. Becky wants to check out some shops in the South Downs. Maybe we can stop in and see you.”

“I have only one bedroom.”

“We’d find an inn to stay at. They’ve got plenty of those in Sussex.”

“In that case, I would enjoy a visit from you.”

“I’ll let you know, then.” He was silent for a moment. “You’re okay then, Sherlock?”

I wanted to ask him about what it means when people call you their boyfriend and leave vegetables in your mailbox, but I wasn’t sure how to frame such a question. “Lestrade, are we friends?”

“Of course,” he responded at once. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m not the sort of person who is good at human interaction. I always seem to misinterpret social cues and make faux pas. For this reason, I have not sought out friends for most of my life. The fact that you consider me one means a lot.”

“Is this about John?”

“Yes.”

“You’re afraid of saying something to him?”

“I don’t know. I can’t figure him out. We walk together every day and have tea on Thursdays. I like talking with him. He talks to me because I’m his neighbour, but he talks to everybody. Everyone likes him. He’s the one who showed me how to make bookcases. And he gives me vegetables and bakes scones for me.” I drew deep breath. “He thinks I’m his boyfriend.”

This news did not seem to bowl over Lestrade. “Do you like him?”

“Yes, I do.”

“But… not as a boyfriend?”

“I’m sixty-five years old, Lestrade. I’m hardly a boy.”

“You’re never too old for love. What I mean is, do you like him, romantically?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure what basis I have to make such a determination.”

He chuckled. “Romance is not science, Sherlock.”

“It should be. It’s just chemistry.”

“You want my opinion?”

“That is why we are talking, Lestrade.”

“Go with it. That’s my opinion. He’s your friend, so just continue doing what you’re doing and see where it goes.”

“That’s terrible advice.”

“What’s terrible about it?”

“I don’t even know why he likes me. Or what he wants. What if I’m wrong? What if he changes his mind?”

“That’s the risk,” he replied. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

“I might have to do some experiments to determine our chances of success.”

“No, Sherlock. That’s a bad idea.”

“I see your point. Since I am one of the parties involved, I can hardly do an unbiased assessment of our compatibility.”

“That’s not what I meant. If you like a person, you don’t experiment on them. Just… take a chance, Sherlock. Tell him how you feel.”

I was silent. I liked being John’s friend, but I wasn’t sure about being his boyfriend, or if that was even something he wanted. It might be a joke, and he would laugh at me for taking it seriously.

“Look, Sherlock,” he continued. “I’m not surprised that John likes you. You’re a good man— you have a lot going for you, and you are perfectly capable of having friends. Don’t sell yourself short.”

“All right,” I said. “I have nothing more to say. I’m going to hang up now.”

“Call me again, okay? Any time, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, Lestrade.”

I made no decision after this conversation. John Watson and I remained as we were, friends who walked together most days, shared our thoughts and projects with one another, and had tea every Thursday. I waited to see if he would call me his boyfriend again, or perhaps raise the ante on gifts. He did not.

I had nothing to give him in return, but sometimes loaned him books he expressed an interest in. There was, of course, the harvest of honey at the end of the summer, and I was generous when it started flowing, reasoning that I could not eat it all myself. I had been enjoying his produce for weeks, so it only seemed right.

He helped me make some needed repairs to my windows and I reciprocated by helping him clean his garage.

I wondered if he was disappointed in the type of person I was. He took the lead in many of our shared projects, and was generally the one who suggested things we might do together. Perhaps he thought me standoffish, but I never seemed able to figure out how to initiate anything. I was used to being alone, to pursuing my own interests, and was aware that I bored most people when I talked. At Scotland Yard, there had been those who went so far as to call me a freak or even a sociopath. Since I’d been called a freak before I ever began working with the Met, I assumed it must be true. I hadn’t cared before, but I did not want John to think me a sociopath.

He was unfailingly kind to me, though, and never seemed angry at anything I said. He might be secretly thinking I was a freak, or even calling up his other friends to tell them I was a freak, but he said nothing to me. I hoped that this was a good sign, but I had been humiliated before by people I trusted.

His attentions were confusing me, I realised, because he seemed so very heterosexual. He had been married, had worn his ring for years after she died. Women flirted with him. He did not act homosexual. I had deduced that he was looking for Mrs Watson the Second, and he had not contradicted me. He only wanted to be my friend, nothing more. Why then did he call me his boyfriend?

I had long understood that I was a homosexual. As a boy, I had never had any interest in girls or their body parts. When my own hormones began to awaken, it was always in response to another male. This was not normal, I knew, but there was very little I could do about it. It was bad enough being a freak; I did not reveal my orientation to anyone.

But the erotic dream I’d had returned. Even in the daytime, I sometimes found my mind wandering in that direction, imagining John… I have never been one to pay much attention to my body; as far as I was concerned, it was just transport. Through my working years, I had kept myself strong and agile enough to do the things my work required. I did not allow my body to rule my mind.

It was distressing to me to have made so little progress since my school days. My experiences then had taught me that I was doomed to remain an outcast from normal society. Ultimately I had decided that my intellectual abilities were all that mattered, and had used them to reason away the need for friends.

Now I wondered if this had been the right decision. A twelve year old boy can’t know what life has in store for him, and it may have been rash for me to decide at that age that sentiment was something to be avoided.

I decided that the pleasure of playing with other musicians outweighed the possibility that they would be terrible. I joined the village ensemble and began going to rehearsals for the Christmas program, which would feature Handel’s Messiah and various traditional carols. Boring choices, but that is what people expect at Christmas. They call it tradition, which means that things must be done exactly the same each year.

At my first rehearsal I learned that they were not terrible. Mr Harmon had taught strings at Harrow for years, and Mr Landers had been a church organist. Others had participated in community orchestras. They were welcoming, and I did not feel like a freak.

Since the age of seven, I had only ever played first chair, but had determined that such positions were not always given by merit and prepared myself to accept second chair. When they offered me first chair, my face coloured at their praise. I remembered to thank them and even pretended to be humble about it.

John informed me that he had joined the chorus which we would accompany. I had heard him sing, but that was only while we were working on bookcases or cleaning out gutters. His voice was good, though not classically trained, and he easily carried a tune. It made me happy to hear him singing. Maybe this meant I liked him as more than a friend, but I wasn’t sure.

Our rehearsals for the Christmas programme became more frequent as the weeks went by. Twice a week we assembled in the church for a joint practice, choir and orchestra. One Monday afternoon, the musical director kept the instrumentalists behind for a few minutes to go over some parts of the score without the vocalists.

As I came out of the sanctuary I spotted John, who was in the narthex talking with the choir director. Mr Fields was a younger man, no older than forty, quite handsome, unmarried. As I watched their faces, an unfamiliar feeling rose inside my chest, a constriction that was not physically painful, but made me anxious. I realised, to my surprise, that I was annoyed at the choir director, whom I scarcely knew. He was looking at John intently, laughing at something he’d said. John, for his part, looked equally engaged in the conversation.

And I saw. They were flirting with one another.

I heard Mr Fields say, “If you’re not busy now, we could—“

“No, I’m waiting for my boyfriend.”

Mr Fields looked over his shoulder and saw me. “Oh, of course. Here he is now.”

John turned, a look of surprise on his face. “There you are. All right?”

I nodded at the choir director and headed for the door. I know that it is considered rude not to say something when you’re leaving, but I did not feel like talking to Mr Fields. John told him goodnight, and followed me outside.

The sun had already sunk below the horizon when we left the church and began our walk home. It had been cold enough for a hard freeze that killed the last remaining plants. No snow yet, but the hardened ground crunched under our boots as we walked.

I said nothing. John did not seem to mind my silence; he was singing softly: _The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light._ He does not have the range to sing this aria, but he captured the right degree of gloom. It made my heart ache a bit.

We had reached my gate. He turned and smiled at me. At this point, we would say our good nights and part ways. I looked at him and felt a pang of something I couldn’t name. Quite suddenly I was irritated beyond measure.

I hadn’t yet figured out what John Watson was playing at, and now it was dawning on me that I had misunderstood everything. Everyone liked him; he liked everybody. I was nothing special to him. Why this should irritate me, I did not know.

“Why do you keep saying that?” I said.

He looked genuinely perplexed. “Saying what?”

“That I’m your _boyfriend_.” I spat the word out with disgust. “You’ve said it three times, to three different people. Either this is a very poor joke, or you are trying to give people an impression—“ I faltered, not certain what I was trying to say.

“Sherlock,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—“

“Finally, an accurate assessment! _You didn’t think_. So true. Generally, you don’t. Like most people, you just let words pop out of your mouth, paying no attention to their meaning. The fact is, I am _not_ your _boyfriend._ I don’t have friends. I especially do not have _boyfriends_.”

He looked properly humbled then, flushed and silent. I felt sorry, but he’d driven me to speak the truth. I hadn’t ever had friends, and this was why. Something always goes wrong, and then everything is awkward.

I attempted to soften my anger a bit. “I’m grateful for your help with the bookshelves. Perhaps you’d accept some remuneration for your time—“

“No.” He spoke the word abruptly, and I realised that I had wounded him deeply.

He was the one who’d made everything awkward, I reminded myself. But I would have to figure out the rest. In a village so small, we were bound to see one another constantly. No doubt everyone already thought we were romantically linked. The thought of having to explain over and over that we were not made me angry. He had no right to do that.

“Well, then,” I said. “Good evening, Doctor.”

“Good evening.” He turned and walked on towards his trailer home.

Two days went by. He did not walk by my cottage (I did keep an eye out), and I was forced to conclude that he was sulking, staying inside specifically to make me feel guilty. I vowed that I would not apologise when we met. I would be polite and distant.

But rather than finding solace in my sitting room, with my neatly ordered books on their lovely shelves, I was reminded constantly of John Watson. I thought of how he’d given hours to the project, teaching me in the process, and I began to waver a bit in my decision to keep a distance.

Thursday went by without a tea-date. There were no morning walks, no texts asking if I needed anything from the shops, no little gifts in my mailbox. I was preparing my hives for the winter now, making sure they were adequately ventilated and protected against mice. After bending over my work, I would straighten and turn, expecting to see him leaning on my fence, asking what I was doing and why, that curious look on his face. But there was no one to ask about my bees. 

When a week had passed, I realised that I was lonely. I missed him. People in the village greeted me as cheerfully as ever, but it did not feel the same. Maybe they knew what an arse I’d been to him and blamed me.

At night, as I lay in my upstairs room, I remembered the look on his face when I had my say— chastened, embarrassed, sad.

I prepared a little peace offering, a volume of verse I thought he’d like. I planned to deliver it in person, apologise, and tell him I wanted to be—

What did I want? I wanted to be as we were, without defining it., which was completely unfair to him.

I would say, _I don’t have friends. I have just one, and that is you. Please forgive me._

Once I’d made up my mind, I could not stew about it a minute longer. I put the book in my coat pocket, walked out the door of my cottage, and headed down the lane towards his trailer home. As I approached, I noted the leaves piled up against his little fence. He was a meticulous gardener, but the recent frost had killed his flowers and he hadn’t trimmed them back. It was worrying.

Even before I knocked on his door, I knew he was gone. There were newspapers on his porch and a package. I knocked, rattled the doorknob to see if it was open. It was locked, further confirmation that he was away. I’d left his key back at my cottage. I might go back and get it, return and let myself inside, but it felt like a violation now. I hadn’t the right.

I walked behind to the garage, peered through the window. No truck.

Where would he go? Most likely he would visit his daughter in Croydon, I decided. Maybe he had friends in London he would see while there. Maybe he would decide not to come back to Sussex. He might let out the trailer-home, or even sell it.

Thinking about this made me much sadder than I expected. Never seeing John Watson again felt unacceptable.

I took his newspapers and package back to my house. I might find out his forwarding address from the postmistress and send them on with a little note, I thought.

Seeing his flower beds in disarray made me sad. Thinking I could at least do this for him, I found a rake and a pair of clippers in my shed and returned to his yard. I cut back the flowering shrubs, pulled up the annuals, and raked the leaves out. The activity did me good, and I hoped my actions would speak my apology for me. It would not matter, though, if he never returned to see my efforts.

That night I sat before my small hearth with a book in my lap, not reading. My eyes dwelt on the bookshelves. For years I had treated my books the way I’d treated my friends, as a convenience when I needed them, a nuisance when I didn’t. I ought to have treasured the people in my life, given them an honoured place in my heart, thanked them for their presence.

Seeing them lined up in their shelves, I felt sorry for all the bent corners and broken bindings. I had left them under the chair, used them as coasters for my tea, propped up wobbly tables with them. Many of them had been with me since university, long before there was the endless labyrinth of the internet. Some had been with me since childhood. I’d kept them because they meant something to me, but I had never treated them with respect.

I had lost a friend because I’d neglected to notice what he meant to me.

I picked up my phone and looked at the string of text messages he’d sent me over the months since we met. _At bakery. What kind of pastry do you like? …Going to the shops— need anything? …On my way over. Ten minutes. …Good night. See you tomorrow…_

I typed a text and hit _send: I’m sorry. SH_

There was no reply.


	5. The Suitor

The following morning, I woke up feeling old. I had slept badly, and the moment I swung my feet over the side of the bed, I knew it was going to be painful to walk. For months, I’d felt like a younger version of myself— walking for miles, climbing on the roof, working on my hives or some project that John had suggested— and had never once thought about how old I was. In his pre-retirement days, Lestrade used to say, _you’re only as old as you feel._ Sitting on the edge of my bed, my feet cold on the floor, I felt at least a hundred years old.

I held the railing as I climbed down the stairs— carefully, knowing that John Watson was no longer a phone call away. And that was the problem; my sudden senescence was an illusion. If I’d been getting ready to go for a walk with John, my joints would not be creaky and my head would not ache dully.

As I filled the kettle to make tea, Mrs Turner came by to tell me she was going away for a few weeks and would not be able to make me frozen meals for a while. Her daughter in Leeds was having a baby. Outside of John, she had been my major source of gossip in the village; I always pumped her for information when I wanted to know something and had found her quite reliable.

“Do many people leave for the winter?” I asked.

“A few do. If they’ve got family up north, they might spend a month over the holidays. Mr Davies is away having a knee replacement done. He’s a healthy sort, though, and is sure to be back in the spring. Oh, did you hear that Mrs Humphrey died? Two days ago. Didn’t expect that. She was only sixty-eight, you know.”

“What did she die of?”

“Dr Watson said she’d had cancer about ten years ago. I suppose it might have been that returning. By the by, have you heard from the Doctor? The postmistress says he didn’t leave any instructions about having his mail forwarded. We were just wondering if everything’s all right.”

I was embarrassed that I didn’t know. “I assume he’s gone to his daughter’s.”

She nodded. “I suppose that’s it. Usually, though, he says something to Mrs Groves— that’s the postmistress— and if it’s more than a week, he sometimes has his mail forwarded. Did he say when he planned to return?”

“Erm… it was an open-ended visit, I believe.”

After she left, I gathered my courage and opened my contacts. I hesitated for a long minute, then touched the number and heard it start to ring.

After four rings, it went to voicemail.

_Hi, John Watson here. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m able._

The beep sounded and I hung up, flustered. I have never liked talking to machines. Then I realised that he had my number and would see that I’d called without leaving a message. I called back. When the beep sounded, I said, “Hi John. This is Sherlock.” _Idiot, he can see who’s left the message._ “I was just calling to say… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten angry at you. Please call me.”

There. It was a vastly inadequate message for what I really wanted to say, but maybe he would call me back.

Or maybe he wouldn’t.

I thought about what Mrs Turner had told me. Mrs Humphrey was a retired nurse who’d lived in the village for about five years. She’d been active in the village church and played viola in the small ensemble that I also had performed in, though she’d missed rehearsals for a couple weeks. You would not look at her and think that she was dying. I had noted the subtle signs that she was not well, but for most people, it must have been a shock to learn she’d died.

Death is often like that. Though everyone we know dies eventually, every time it catches us unawares.

John Watson was sixty-seven, he’d told me, two years older than me. He’d been shot in the shoulder while serving in Northern Ireland and had nearly died. To his own surprise, he’d lived, married a nurse he’d met in hospital, and practiced medicine until he decided to retire. He looked the very picture of health, and in spite of his injury, which limited his arm movement, he played rugby in the pensioners league, gardened, and built bookcases. He did not look like a man likely to die suddenly.

But I remembered when he asked to exchange keys with me, how he insisted that anyone might have a stroke or fall down a flight of stairs. He was a doctor, and had undoubtedly seen perfectly healthy-looking people suddenly succumb to an illness or injury. And maybe he had a health condition that worried him, and was glad to have someone nearby to check on him.

His truck was gone, so he had not fallen in the shower or had a stroke in his trailer home. If he’d been sick, he would have called 999. But he might have had an accident driving his truck. Automobile accidents take more lives each year than falling in the shower or tumbling down a flight of stairs. Actually, heart disease is the leading cause of death for those in our age group. Having a stroke while driving a car undoubtedly puts you in the number one spot, statistically speaking.

I tried to put away thoughts of John being ill or in an accident, but was restless all day, unable to focus on any project. It was November now, and the hives were secure. Our ensemble had stepped up rehearsals for the Christmas program, which was to feature selections from the Messiah. As the afternoon wore on, I took out my violin to practice. This distracted my mind from worries for a while, but evening came and my gloom returned.

I heated up one of Mrs Turner’s excellent meat pies, and though I hadn’t much appetite, I ate what I could. Then I settled down in front of the fire with a book. My eyes went over and over the same lines without comprehending anything. Finally, I snapped the book shut and stared into the fire.

We had been friends, I acknowledged. I didn’t know what kind of friends we were, but I knew that I was not wrong about this; it was obvious to everyone that we were friends. I thought of Lestrade, a different kind of friend, but a friend nonetheless.

 _You never married._ Lestrade had once said this to me, and I had explained that feelings were anathema to me, that sentiment would interfere with rational thought. I had believed this completely when I was working.

But I had known my own orientation since I was a boy. Early on, I had decided not to act on it. Relationships were complicated, and (at that time especially) figuring out a relationship with a man was beyond my abilities. I was an asocial boy, embarrassed by my urges, and had settled for being strange rather than figuring out how to be gay. I learned self-control.

Lestrade had guessed my secret, I suppose. He’d worked closely enough with me to observe what I rarely let others see. I often called him an idiot, but he was not blind. He knew what my loneliness hid.

I wondered now what had I accomplished by pushing those feelings aside. What had I to show for my self-restraint?

Things were different for gay people now. As a boy, I’d been taught that such feelings were inappropriate, a sign of mental illness. I might be a different person if I had been born at a different time. If I were in my twenties now, I might meet someone like John and spend my life with him. For the first time, I realised that my subconscious had been sending me messages— the dreams, the re-awakening urges, the jealousy. I had ignored them simply because I always had.

Had John wanted more than friendship? I thought of all the little gifts, the scones and the flowers, and I realised that for months he’d been flirting with me. He’d winked at me, for God’s sake. So obvious now— that’s what this was: he was courting me.

And what had I done? Nothing. I had neither discouraged him nor encouraged him. I had entirely ignored his overtures— and that was not fair. If I hadn’t wanted his attentions, why had I not said so? I had, in fact, led him on.

But why would John Watson, a man with impeccable _not-gay_ credentials, be flirting with a man? Why me? There was a mystery about him that I had failed to solve. He had married, had a child, and lost his wife. He did not seem like a man who had loved, lost, and sworn off ever loving again. He was friendly, and attracted females like pollen attracts bees. With them, he was polite, but nothing more. He wore his wedding ring— oh.

Why would a single man wear a wedding ring? Because he wants _women_ to think he’s unavailable. He is sending a signal to _women_ that he is not interested.

Three times John had called me his boyfriend. Twice, I’d said nothing. And then, I’d humiliated him.

Maybe Lestrade was right. Maybe romance could teach me something about myself.

Once in my bed, I tossed and turned, unable to reach any conclusion. It was all so complicated— I was a sixty-five year old man who had never been in a romantic relationship. I could not have been more embarrassed and awkward if I’d been thirteen years old.

I was an idiot, an old man who was afraid of something that even thirteen year olds eventually figure out. 

I sat up, turned on the light, and dialled his number again. “Hello, John. By now you probably realise that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I never expected to be anybody’s friend, much less boyfriend. Certainly not the friend of anyone as generous and kind and wise as you. If you can see your way clear to giving me another chance, I would welcome it. I miss you.”

I awoke to the chiming of my phone. The sound startled me out of a shadowy dream where John and I were chasing someone down a dark alley. I sometimes dreamed about my days solving crimes in London, but I’d never had any partner other than whomever the Met had assigned to the case. As I grasped at the shards of the dream, the phone chimed again.

People rarely called me. I find phone calls awkward, mostly because I never know when to hang up, lacking the visual cues a face-to-face conversation provides. I liked texts because one could look at a message later and send a quick reply. Normally Lestrade had texted me when he had something to tell or ask; so had John. It was pleasant to open my phone and see a little note from John— always accompanied by a silly emoji— and know he’d been thinking of me.

I picked up my phone and saw that I had a voicemail— from John’s number. My breath catching, I pushed _play_ and held it to my ear.

_Mr Holmes, this is Rose Allen, John Watson’s daughter. I saw that you’d been trying to reach him. Give me a call at this number as soon as you get this message._

I was still sitting on the bed when I listened to this. Now I nearly tripped over myself reaching for some clothes to put on. This was obviously a conversation that would require me to be dressed. Something had happened, and I must prepare myself to deal with it.

I made tea and sat down to listen again. The voice message was short, but I tried to wring as many deductions from it as I could.

Her voice sounded tense. _Bad news?_

Why wasn’t John answering his phone? The obvious answer was that he’d seen I’d been calling and had ignored the messages. The less obvious, but still probable answer was that he could not answer his own phone because he was ill or injured or—

He hadn’t deleted them. Had he intended to respond, but couldn’t? Was he thinking about how to reply, or unable to reply at the moment? He did not seem like a person who fretted over wording things right, so I guessed he had been unable to reply.

Rose had just seen my messages from the previous day. Why did she have his phone? Why hadn’t she explained in her message why she was answering it? Usually people don’t give bad news in a voicemail or text message. A phone call or a personal visit were how things like that were shared.

 _I saw that you’d been trying to reach him._ She probably hadn’t listened to my voicemail messages, then. _Thank God for that_.

Had she told John that I’d called? If she had, why hadn’t he called back?

Maybe he couldn’t call back. Maybe he was in a coma, or injured, or—

My thoughts were going around and around, circling like vultures. Eventually I decided that I was an idiot and any normal person would simply hit _call back._

It rang twice. A woman’s voice said, “Mr Holmes.”

“Yes.” My voice sounded strange. I was aiming to sound casual, but I just sounded strained. “Thank you for calling me, Mrs Allen. Is your father all right? I haven’t seen him for over a week.”

“He’ll be fine,” she said.

Somehow this wasn’t reassuring. When someone is fine, people say, _he’s fine._ Saying _he’ll be fine_ implied that he was currently not fine, and some idiot (doctor?) had given her groundless reassurances that he would be fine.

“Oh?”

“He came up for the funeral. You knew his sister died, didn’t you?”

“No, I’m afraid he didn’t tell me.”

“I’m not surprised. He got the call late, rang me to say he was coming up at once. He drove through the night— six hours to Hexham, a foolish decision, but I couldn’t talk him out of it. She never regained consciousness. Still, he was able to say goodbye, after a fashion.”

“I’m very sorry. Was it… unexpected?”

“She was older by a few years and had a number of health problems that were getting worse. It was kidney failure.”

“Is John all right?”

She paused. “He made all the arrangements for the funeral. Harry’s partner, Clara, was being difficult and fought him on everything, even the things Harry had specified. Dealing with all of that was very stressful for him. They didn’t get on, you know, he and his sister, and I think he felt guilty. Lots of bad memories. At the funeral yesterday he started having chest pains, so we called for an ambulance. Naturally he fussed, saying it was nothing serious, but I insisted.”

“He had a heart attack?” By now I felt as if I might be having a heart attack too.

“A very mild one. The doctor said they should keep him a couple days for observation, and I agreed, over his objections. I had to steal his clothes to make sure he didn’t escape. Right now he’s sleeping. I let him listen to your messages, but told him he couldn’t call until I’d explained to you what happened.”

I knew what I needed to do. “May I visit him? I can catch a train this morning and be there this afternoon. If it’s all right, I mean.”

“Of course it’s all right. He’s anxious to see you.”

On the train I replayed this conversation in my mind. He had heard my messages and was _anxious_ to see me. Though _anxious_ is an undesirable state of mind, when directed against a particular person (me, for instance) it is better than many other emotions (anger, for instance). If he were angry with me, he would not be _anxious_ to see me. That he was _anxious_ was a good sign, I decided.

There are many kinds and degrees of heart attacks. My brother had died almost instantly when he had his. The doctor had explained that he was basically a time bomb, ticking until a clot of blood broke off and blocked a major artery. At the time, it seemed better than lingering on in an impaired state, unable to talk or move. Though he had never fully enjoyed being young, I know that he hated being old. Overall, he would probably have been satisfied with dying suddenly instead of slowly descending into decrepitude.

John’s attack had been _very mild._ The doctor had recommended that he stay in hospital, but just for observation, not treatment. He, being a doctor, would know if this were an unwise thing to do. Still, doctors are difficult patients, I am told, and never follow medical advice if anyone else is giving it. The fact that he was being kept against his will did not necessarily mean he was ready to go home. I would have to see for myself if he would be _fine._

After running through every possible permutation of what _fine_ meant, I began to wonder if I should bring him a gift. As anxious as I felt, I was not eager to spend time in a gift shop. Fortunately, I still had the poetry book in my pocket. That would have to do. I opened the front cover and took out my fountain pen.

 _Dear John_ (I wrote) _,_

_Please try to get well as quickly as possible and return to Sussex so I won’t be bored. I would advise you to follow your doctor’s advice, even if he/she is an idiot, because he/she will not release you if you are stroppy and rude to him/her. Being polite and pretending obedience is a much more effective strategy. I speak from experience._

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

I read this over and decided that it sounded a bit selfish when I said _so I won’t be bored._ I add a postscript:

_P.S. I assume that you are bored as well. Hospitals are boring places. Again, I speak from experience. Once you are released, I promise that boredom won’t be a problem for either of us._

I arrived late in the afternoon and went straight to the hospital. Rose had instructed me to text her when I arrived, and met me as I got off the elevator.

In response to my anxious questions, she smiled reassuringly. “He’s grumpy. That’s nothing unusual, though. Like most doctors, he’s the worst kind of patient. The nurses draw lots to see who will check on him, hoping they won’t have to listen to him tell them how to do their jobs. They’ve run every test imaginable on him, but there seems to be no damage.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with my ears, either.” I heard his voice as we approached his room.

I’m not sure what my face was doing as I entered the room. He had a right to be angry with me, though I hoped he wouldn’t be. I felt both apprehensive and relieved. He looked a bit pale, but I think hospitals manage the lighting so people always look pale. They don’t want visitors telling their patients, _You look fine. Why are you here?_ There were tubes and wires attached to him, but he was sitting up, looking alert.

“Holmes,” he said. “It’s nothing serious. You didn’t have to come.”

“That’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it?”

His face went through several expressions— surprise, joy, embarrassment— and then tears gathered in his eyes. “Come here, you git,” he said.

Rose cleared her throat. “Can I leave you two alone for a bit? Or do I need to chaperone?”

“We’re fine.” I pulled a chair over to the bed and took his hand in mine.

He didn’t speak, but looked down at our joined hands.

“I’m sorry about your sister,” I said.

“Thank you.” He nodded. “She hadn’t taken care of herself.”

“But nonetheless, it was a shock.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Sherlock, you don’t have to— I know I’ve been a fool, but you don’t have to pretend. I’m not dying.”

“I was wrong,” I said. “You didn’t come to Sussex to find a wife.”

Looking away, he shook his head. “I came to find… you.”

“You heard my message, John. I meant what I said. I’d like another chance.”

He carried on looking out the window. “You don’t have to be my boyfriend.”

“What if that’s what I want?”

He looked at me warily. “You… want?”

I tried to look stern, but was certainly failing to suppress my smile. “Or was that all a come-on, Dr Watson? All the biscuits and flowers and flirty little messages?”

“Sherlock.” He blinked away tears. “I didn’t intend to make you feel awkward or embarrassed. I shouldn’t have assumed...”

“You’re in love with me.” Saying this, I felt as if there were a hive of bees buzzing in my chest.

He nodded, but didn’t meet my eyes. “You’re not in love with me.”

“I could be,” I said. “I might be, if I stop trying to make sense of it. In truth, I am novice at this... at romance. If that’s what this is. I think about you all the time, John. The thought of you being sick or hurt or— well, it nearly drove me insane, wondering if something had happened to you.”

“I should have called,” he said. “Or texted. Something.”

“And that night of the rehearsal, when you were talking with Mr Fields, I was angry with you and should never have said what I said.”

“Why were you angry?”

“I have recently come to the conclusion that I was jealous. I thought you were flirting with him and wanted you to stop.”

“He was coming on to me,” John said. “That’s why I said I was waiting for you.”

“All your little presents, your attentions— you made me feel special, but I didn’t know how to respond. If my response was less than you hoped, it’s because I am a fool.”

He laughed and looked up, wiping his eyes. “Have you never been in love?”

He was closing in on things that were difficult for me to talk about, things that I’d packed up and sealed in a room in my Mind Palace. I had prized reason above emotion, and lived my life that way. That room may have been locked, but it wasn’t forgotten. “No. I have never been in love.”

“Never? Not an unrequited crush?”

“It’s complicated,” I said. “Is it love if the other person doesn’t feel the same? I don’t see how it can exist if it’s one-sided. That’s just a fantasy. I have felt— well, I have not experienced love.”

He shook his head. “Love is always complicated. I do love you, and I will accept whatever you’re comfortable with. If that’s friendship, I will gladly be your friend.”

“And if it’s more?”

He sighed and closed his eyes. “Yes, I want to be more than just your friend. But I never want to make you angry—“

“I was angry because I’m an idiot,” I said. “I want to stop being an idiot. I want…” It would sound silly if I said it.

“What do you want?” he whispered, squeezing my hand.

I took a deep breath and let it out, but did not feel a bit calmer, in spite of the increased oxygen to my brain. It was a bit like going down the stairs and missing one, tumbling all the way to the bottom. The end result is what you set out to achieve (I’m at the bottom), but the method leaves much to be desired (out of breath, minor bumps and bruises).

I knew what I needed to do to understand this feeling and own it. “Thus far, you have done all the courting. I didn’t recognise that was what you were doing. Now that I understand, I would like to reciprocate. I want to woo you. Is that all right?”

He smiled. “Oh, God, yes.”

I hoped that my face was conveying something more pleasant than the terror that was pounding in my chest. “I have studied the process and believe I understand what is expected.”

He giggled. “This is to be a traditional courtship, then?”

“Of course. As a first step, I’ve brought you a gift. I know flowers are conventional, but poetry is also associated with wooing.” I handed him the book.

“ _The Complete Poems of John Donne.”_ He opened the front cover, saw the inscription and read. Chuckling, he looked up at me. “I promise to get out of here soon, even if it means cooperating with my doctor.” He smiled at the book. “You picked this out for me?”

“Donne is one of the few poets I can stand to read. His poetry is called _metaphysical,_ which means it is less insipid than other love poetry. It is both analytical and beautiful. At this point in our courtship, I would like to share one of his poems with you.”

On the train I had read _The Good Morrow_ so many times that I could recite it from memory _._ It is the only love poem I could find that described my feeling of waking up in a new world with my love beside me, the two of us facing the future together. I needed to borrow the words of someone who had thought about love more than I had, whose words had stood the test of time. I suppose this is why poems are considered romantic, because most of us are idiots, lacking the words to express something ineffable.

“… _And now good-morrow to our waking souls,_

_Which watch not one another out of fear;_

_For love, all love of other sights controls,_

_And makes one little room an everywhere…_ ”

In every way, I felt as if I had been asleep for years, finally waking to love. Sitting in this small hospital room, my fears forgotten, it all seemed so simple. He loved me, I loved him. As long as we had one another, we had everything.

“… _If our two loves be one, or, thou and I_

 _Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die._ ”

He looked up at me, his eyes shining. _“None can die,_ ” he repeated. “It’s beautiful.”

“Next,” I said, moving through my agenda of wooing tasks. “I would like to take you on a date. I believe coffee is an acceptable first date, or perhaps lunch, and then a movie or some such entertainment. Finally dinner, after which we might, erm...”

“I’m not waiting through all those dates to kiss you,” he said, smiling as if he would burst. “Come here, boyfriend.”

I did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, a sort of coda: "The Husband."


	6. The Husband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why John wore his wedding ring for so many years. More poetry. And happiness! So much happiness.

I wanted to sleep in the chair next to John’s bed, but the nurses invoked Visiting Hours. When she knew I was coming up on the train, Rose had reserved me a room at a hotel near the hospital. We said good night to John and walked out together.

“Your husband left you,” I said as we waited for the lift. Immediately I realised that she would probably not appreciate the reminder. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business, but I noticed you’ve stopped wearing your wedding ring.”

She snorted. “I left _him_. He was cheating on me.”

“How did you find out?”

“I noticed that he’d started wearing cologne. He wasn’t answering his phone at times he used to be available, and he kept his phone in his pocket at home. If a call came in, he’d leave the room to answer it.”

The lift opened; we stepped inside. “Good deduction.”

“It was obvious.” She pushed the ground floor button. “And he was careless. I should have noticed sooner. I guess I just didn’t want to know.”

“Humans have a great capacity for ignoring what they are not prepared to deal with.”

“So true,” she replied. “Sherlock, I want to thank you for coming. My dad—“ She gave me a knowing look. “He can be a difficult person.”

This was a puzzling statement. “I don’t find him difficult in the least. I find him a very easy person to like.”

“What I mean is that he obviously said something that upset you. He wouldn’t tell me what happened, but he was clearly upset. I asked, but he would only say he’d made a mistake and you were angry with him.”

“I’m not angry. I was confused,” I said. “I misunderstood his intentions.”

She studied me with eyes that were very like her father’s. “But now you understand.”

“I do.”

“I’m glad. I just hope you’ll give him a chance.”

“Of course.”

The doors opened and we stepped out.

“The hotel’s just around the corner.” She gestured; I continued beside her. “Dad is— well, his life didn’t turn out the way he expected, and now that he’s retired, I had hoped that he would find someone.”

“You mean, a boyfriend.”

She smiled. “I’m not as oblivious as he thinks. He’s been lonely, in spite of the many women who’ve thrown themselves his way over the years.”

“Everyone likes your father,” I said.

“My father likes you,” she replied. “He sees something special in you, and I think I understand what it is.”

“What is it?”

Still smiling, she cocked her head and gave me an appraising look.“Maybe you should ask him.”

As I entered his room the following morning, he looked a bit grim. I stopped in my tracks, wondering what had happened.

“Come for a walk with me,” he said, sliding out of the bed and shuffling into his slippers. “These nurses are driving me crazy.”

“Is this a date?” I asked. “I believe taking walks together is considered romantic.”

He slipped his hand into the crook of my elbow and smiled up at me. “Yes, we are now officially going steady.”

We strolled up and down the hall a few times. The nurses glanced at us; the ones that John had not terrorised smiled at us. I was getting used to the idea that people would look at us and consider us a couple. In fact, I was a bit proud to have such a handsome boyfriend. It was not something I had ever considered, at least not since my university days, which took place during a time when gay couples didn’t tend to walk arm in arm.

“Are you feeling tired?” I asked him.

“A bit,” he said, holding my arm tighter. “They’re still calling it a mild coronary _event_ , but I’m convinced it was just angina. No signs of damage or plaque build-up. Just a bout of chest pain brought on by anxiety. Late night call, then driving up here, worrying…” He shook his head. “It’s been stressful.”

“You were anxious about your sister.”

“Yes. The hospital… and the waiting for news… it brought back some unhappy memories.” He motioned to a window bay with comfy-looking chairs. “Let’s sit.”

After some moments of silence, during which he nervously clenched and unclenched his hands, I said, “I’m curious about your memories. You mentioned that your wife died under difficult circumstances. You don’t have to tell me, but I was wondering if something about those two events was similar.”

He nodded. “I do want to tell you. I think you deserve to know.”

“Only if you want me to,” I said. “John, I hope you understand that I’m sometimes an arse, but I am not intentionally being insensitive. When I was a child, there were no categories for me; today they would most likely put an acronym on me and send me to a special school.” I had never said this to anyone before. Even my family had avoided talking about _what’s wrong with Sherlock._ “Although I say you don’t have to tell me, I’m hoping you will and that you won’t be offended and think I’m treating you like a case when I ask too many questions.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t a mean, _you’re a freak_ kind of laugh. “God help me, I do love you, Sherlock. So much. And of course I’ll tell you. It’s not easy for me to talk about, but I will.”

The talking did not begin at once, though. He looked contemplative, and I assumed he was putting his thoughts in order.

“May I kiss you?” I asked. “I brushed my teeth before coming over, so it ought to be more pleasant than yesterday’s kiss. I’ve been a bit worried that you might—”

“Come here,” he said, pulling me towards him.

He was a good kisser, I deduced. I’m afraid I was a bit sloppy, uncertain what my tongue ought to be doing and worried that our teeth would clack together. His tongue gently parted my lips and explored my mouth. I’d had some dental work after a couple teeth were knocked out, and wondered if I should have warned him. He hummed, a pleased sound, and nibbled on my lower lip, worrying it a bit with his teeth. This activity stimulated other parts of my anatomy to indicate their readiness to participate. Clearly, there was much more to kissing than I had thought.

“That was good,” he whispered when we parted. “I will look forward to kissing you every day, as many times as you like.”

“Have you had boyfriends before?” I asked.

“Plural— no. Just one. He was a musician, an aspiring pianist. I met him when I was at a medical conference in Edinburgh. He was playing at a piano bar to make money, but his dream was to perform with the London Symphonic Orchestra.”

“He was younger than you.”

“A few years, yes. And I was married. I’d met Mary, my wife, when I was in hospital recovering from my shoulder wound. We’d been married a couple years, and Rose had just been born when I met Peter.”

“That was his name— Peter.” I absorbed this information. “You loved him.”

“You know what those times were like,” he said. “It was not like today, when coming out as a gay man is more common, and somewhat more acceptable. Gay men learned where to meet other gay men; we didn’t talk about those meetings. I hadn’t done that sort of thing since university, and hadn’t really planned on looking for it after I married. Nobody openly talked about being gay and I assumed that I would grow out of it if I just led the life I was expected to lead. It sounds stupid to say that now, but back then I thought it was just a phase that young men go through.”

“I thought I was mentally ill,” I added.

He nodded. “It wasn’t well understood. And being outed was a danger, so we didn’t talk about it. People were studying it even back then, but showing too much interest in that was risky. Peter and I kept our affair secret.”

“Your wife didn’t suspect?”

“After a few months, Mary began to ask questions. I’m ashamed to say that I lied to her, repeatedly. I hadn’t planned to have a gay affair, but I loved Peter and saw that marriage hadn’t made me straight, in spite of my efforts to change. Eventually, he began pushing me to divorce her. I told him I couldn’t leave my daughter. But he was becoming more comfortable with the idea of being openly gay. That was all right for him— he was an artist, and people accepted it in artistic men. But a gay doctor? I would have lost my patients. Can you imagine a straight man willing to be examined by a gay doctor? It couldn’t happen, and I told Peter so. He replied that he couldn’t be with a man who refused to be honest about who he was.”

“He broke off with you,” I said. “Did you tell your wife then?”

“No, but she knew something was wrong. We argued a lot. It was early in 1983 when I got a letter from Peter. He told me he’d just been diagnosed with an immune disorder which was linked to sexual contact between gay men. I’d heard of AIDS; we’d been calling it _GRID_ , Gay-Related Immune Deficiency. Somehow, I hadn’t expected it to have any relevance for me, since I hadn’t been visiting bathhouses or gay clubs, and had never had multiple partners. It had been a year since I’d been with him.”

I nodded. “I remember the first time I heard about AIDS. I’d had casual sex a few times at uni, but no penetration. Still, it was alarming, not knowing exactly how it was transmitted. That was when I swore off sex entirely.”

“I know. Scary times, for quite a few years. Peter suggested I get myself tested, but it was still a new thing, and clinics weren’t set up for anonymity. I didn’t know what to do, so I took a hiatus from the clinic where I was working. I told Mary I wanted to switch careers. She and I argued about that as well.”

“That’s when you started writing medical thrillers.”

He grinned. “I did. Actually, I published a couple under a pen name. But that was later. One evening Mary and I were supposed to go to a wedding, a friend of hers from school. We’d gotten a baby sitter and headed out. I was driving. She started up again, complaining about it all. Our income was down and bills weren’t getting paid. She demanded to know why I’d suddenly quit my job without talking about it. Well, she was angry, and I was angry. She asked me if I was having an affair; I denied it. I wasn’t seeing Peter any longer, so it was true, but my answer wasn’t completely honest. She could tell, and pressed me. There was an accident. The other driver was killed. I wasn’t cited because he was intoxicated and blamed for crossing the median, but I knew that I could have avoided him if I hadn’t been distracted.”

“You hurt your leg,” I said. “Your right leg, when you jammed your foot on the brake. It wasn’t rugby—“

“You’re getting ahead of my story,” he said, smiling. “My leg was broken, and it’s still a bit shorter than the other one. Hardly noticeable to anyone but Sherlock Holmes. Mary was injured as well, a concussion. That was before airbags were mandatory.”

“Is that how she died?”

“No, she recovered. But when they were scanning her for internal injuries, they discovered a tumour. Several tumours, actually, on her cervix. Cervical cancer was just being discovered in women exposed to AIDS.”

“And you believed that she had gotten that exposure from you.”

“I was afraid. If I’d known more— but it was early days, and most infections were in gay men. Nobody knew much about how it would manifest in women. People were dying, and I thought it possible that I had given it to her. They operated on her immediately, did a hysterectomy. With the help of a colleague, I was able to get myself tested, and was relieved when it came back negative.”

“You didn’t give her cancer. But you blamed yourself.”

“Yes, I blamed myself. I had acted irresponsibly, had broken my marriage vows and lied about it. The cancer had already metastasised, and it was spreading quickly; chemo might have given her a few months, but the diagnosis was a death sentence. Once I left the hospital, I took care of her for the six months that she lived. Peter died about the same time.”

He was silent. I waited, though I still had many questions.

Finally he sighed and squeezed my hand. “I continued to wear my wedding ring because it reminded me that I’d been stupid. People thought I was mourning for years, that I’d lost the love of my life. I suppose I had; two people I’d loved had died.”

“You wore it to remind you,” I said. “And it probably also kept away women who might have considered you marriageable. Then why did you stop wearing it?”

“I was still wearing it when I came down here, to Sussex. Everyone knew I was a widower, and they thought the same, that I hadn’t gotten over her death. Rose came for a visit when I turned sixty-five. She said it was high time I stopped punishing myself, that I deserved to be happy. She knew about her mother’s death, though she hadn’t heard the whole story. But she knew me, and had understood enough. She said, _girlfriend, boyfriend— doesn’t matter. Just find someone you can be happy with._ ”

“Someone said something similar to me,” I said. “He said I might have been a different person if I’d allowed myself to fall in love. I never expected to meet a person who could make me feel that way.”

He nodded. “I didn’t either— until I saw you. I knew it the minute I saw you fixing your hives.”

“I wish I’d noticed. For an observant man, I’ve been remarkably blind. I hope you can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive. The months I’ve spent knowing you have been the happiest of my life. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.” He put his arms around me, whispered in my ear. “And now, my love, we have so much to look forward to.”

Rose was coming down the hall towards us. “They’re ready to discharge you,” she said. “I’ll bring the truck around while they’re giving you your walking papers.”

He squeezed my hand. “Let’s go home.”

I sat in the hospital room with John while the nurse went over his discharge instructions.

“Take your medications exactly as prescribed,” she said. “We can go over them again if you’re not sure.”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”

“He’s a doctor,” I added. “He already knows these things.”

“I’m sorry, but I am required to go over these instructions before you leave, Doctor Watson.” The nurse glared at me. “Even if he is a doctor.”

“It’s fine.” John gave her his best smile, the one that makes his eyes crinkle a bit and my heart sigh. “I’m listening.”

“Recovery will take time,” she continued. “Generally you can resume normal activities in four weeks.”

“Christmas concert,” I reminded him.

The nurse adjusted her glasses and turned her attention back to John. “When your doctor says it’s all right, you can resume having sex.”

My boyfriend’s cheeks turned a bit pink. I squeezed his hand.

“Your doctor will probably give you permission to drive at the same time.”

John chuckled. “Never tried that before, driving and having sex at the same time.”

“Sounds dangerous,” I said, smiling back at him.

He grinned. “And here we are.” 

We returned to Croydon and stayed at Rose’s house for a few days. John saw a cardiologist, who said his blood tests looked fine, his heart sounded fine, and he could now drive, as long as he had someone in the car with him.

As we prepared to return to Sussex, Rose took me aside. “I don’t like him living alone. Maybe his heart is fine, I don’t know. But he’s almost sixty-eight. Maybe you could…” She sighed. “At least check on him daily?”

“I can do better than that,” I said. “Having anticipated your worries, which are my own as well, I have invited him to move in with me. We will, of course, have to share a bed.”

There is nothing wrong with John’s ears. We could hear him yelling from the other room, “Did you think I’d move in with you if I had to sleep alone?”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Well, get someone to help you move his things over. No heavy lifting.”

He appeared in the doorway. “No lifting. I make no promises about other strenuous activities.”

Together, we settled into our life in Sussex. The Christmas concert was very well-received. No one seemed startled or offended that John and I were clearly a couple. Perhaps they had seen it before I even noticed it happening.

We put up a tree in my sitting room— _our_ sitting room now— and decorated the pines outside with popcorn and suet for the birds.

Strenuous activities took place in our bedroom.

There are many things I love about sharing my life with John. I have a habit of talking to myself; now someone answers me. In the morning I hear him singing as he puts the kettle on; then he will shout up the stairs, asking how I want my eggs. Fresh scones and biscuits are always on hand, and though I can’t quite figure out why, the tea tastes better when he makes it. At any time of day, I adore hearing his laugh. At night, I love wrapping myself around him, feeling his warmth.

I am not sure how I lived without him for so many years. I decided that the rest of my life, however long or sort, must be spent with him.

Which was why, when Lestrade and his wife came to visit us in February, I was able to introduce them to my _husband._

I had never seen Lestrade speechless before. He gaped for a moment, then grabbed me into a hug, laughing. “Married? You bastard— you should have told me! We would have come up for the wedding!”

“It was a small affair,” I said. “At the registrar’s office.”

“We have news to share as well,” Becky said.

The news was that the Lestrades were moving to Sussex. Antiquing had taken over their lives.

“Her life,” he explained. “I’m just along for the ride. Maybe I’ll learn to garden, or keep bees, or build bookcases.”

“We’re looking for a place we can build up,” she said. “Do you know of anything nearby?”

John and I had been talking about selling his property, which was a bit larger than mine. The trailer home could be moved to my lot and used as a guest house for Rose and her children when they visited.

By mid-summer, the Lestrades had finished building their cottage, having lived in John’s old workshop temporarily while it went up. We had also begun a project of our own, building a new workshop on my property to accommodate our many interests.

There was a time when I could not imagine getting up in the morning without a case to solve. Now I cannot imagine waking up without John beside me. Once I thought my life was over because no more clients came to my door. I have a new life now, a life I never dreamed of when I lived alone in London.

There is always something to do here— hives to check, seeds to plant, vegetables and honey to harvest. There are walks to be taken, small miracles of nature to be observed, company to be enjoyed, and friends to have over for tea. There is music to play, weather to be complained of, and small mysteries to solve.

And if I ever grumble that my joints ache, or if I look in the mirror and moan at the increasing number of grey hairs, my husband will always put his arms around me, remind me to stop complaining and give him a kiss.

Or, as the poet says: _For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love!_ *

_______________________________

*The Canonization / John Donne


End file.
